


The Third Bite (Is The Hardest)

by Moorishflower



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Heroes, M/M, Slash, Sylar/Mohinder - Freeform, Vampires, Werewolves, m/m - Freeform, mylar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-05
Updated: 2009-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:31:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where vampires and werewolves war over territory and hunting rights, an unlikely bond is formed. A Heroes AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Third Bite (Is The Hardest)

**The Third Bite (Is The Hardest)**

 

_As long as there have been humans, there have been wolves. In one form or another, man has always run beside the pack, two legs to four and feet to paws, brothers and comrades in arms. ‘Twas man that eventually claimed a wolf pup as his own, and raised it as a child, and captured it a mate in order to breed more, and soon they were not wolves but dogs. But every dog has that last trace of the old blood, the urge to howl and snarl and bite. Every dog is a wolf inside._

_So, to this day, man still runs beside the pack, two legs to four and feet to paws, mouth to snout and bitch to mother._

_Some run faster than others._

 

The pack grows smaller every year. Mohinder tries not to concern himself with it, tries to display the fierce pride and calm that his brothers and sisters expect of him, but he is worried. There is a threat here that he has heard of but does not want to consider, a thief in the night, a slayer of beasts.

A hunter.

Mohinder does not immerse himself in the lore of their people, prefers the comforts of modernity to the savage harshness of the old ways, and it is this, more than any qualities of strength or ferocity, that has allowed him to rise through the ranks and claim a pack of his very own.

He didn’t necessarily want it at the time, but it was his, and now he is grateful. The many are so much stronger than the one.

“Tell me what you think it is,” Mohinder prompts quietly. Matt studies him, big shoulders hunched, grave face illuminated by candlelight. Mohinder does not follow the old ways, but Matt still believes they hold some merit.

Matt shakes his head, pondering. Even during the long weeks, when the moon disappears and her call cannot be heard, there is something of the wolf about him, in his serious eyes and the broadness of his body. If Mohinder were not already alpha by virtue of his intelligence, surely Matt would take his position, by virtue of his strength of body and heart.

“Vampires,” he says finally, slowly. It is a word that is rarely spoken, more a curse than a designation. Mohinder touches the mark on the webbing between his right thumb and forefinger, old and twisted scar tissue from where he was first bitten. Like vampires, no werewolf is ever born. They are only made.

He closes off his emotions, looks at Matt with neutral eyes. “My thought as well. Which means they’re getting bolder.”

“We should fight back.”

Mohinder shakes his head, sighing. Matt’s soft snarl only grows.

“We’re too weak,” he murmurs, his fear, his reluctant observation, and only Matt can hear it. Only Matt will understand it.

“We need to regroup.”

“We _can’t_. We’re the only sizable pack left on the East Coast. All the others have moved on. South. West.”

“Then we need to make _more_.”

“There are _rules_,” Mohinder snaps, _snarls_, and Matt backs off with an apologetic whine. Sometimes Mohinder appreciates his recklessness, his willingness to push authority. Now is not one of those times.

“Give me a week,” he pleads quietly, and Matt nods. As much as he loves and adores his leader, he knows as well as anyone else that there are times when an alpha’s position must be challenged.

Leaders do not last forever.

* * *

_The dead will never stay dead._

_In the beginning there was life, and life, and more life, and no one ever died because the glory on high had decreed it so, and everyone was happy._

_But with infinite vitality there also came infinite sorrows. No one ever left, and the land did not grow to accommodate those who arrived, and eventually the crisis was brought to the attention of the glory, the All-Fathers, those who watch from on high._

_“If no one ever fades then soon there will be not land, nor food, nor air enough for any creature alive,” was one argument._

_“If all life fades then there will be sorrow. There will be vengeance and justice. There will be pain,” was the other._

_Both were equally valid. Both rallied the same amount of support._

_The standstill lasted for many days, until finally the glory came to a decision._

_“All those who live shall be given a choice,” was the order. “Sweet eternity in the hereafter, to bask in the light and the love of the All-Fathers, or a half-life, a dark life in the waking realm you hold so dear.”_

_And the people found this good, and for a time there was happiness._

_But it is the nature of man to forget the old ways, and the old gods with them. The All-Fathers faded from the memory and the history of the earth, but their commands and decrees remain. To this day, if one is determined enough, it is possible to make the choice between death and half-life, between dawn and dusk._

_It is possible, as all things are possible._

 

It has been more than a year since Sylar took a person into his bed. Nathan has tried to rationalize it. Peter has tried to _talk_ to him about it. Tracy and Niki have tried (unsuccessfully) to break his streak of celibacy.

Angela looks at him with knowing and pitying eyes.

“If you’d just let us take you out,” Nathan says, smooth charm and grace. He was a politician in life; now his smile and his silver tongue get him fresh blood instead of fresh votes.

“We’d find you someone special,” Peter finishes his brother’s sentence. The black sheep of the family, Peter still maintains a human job, working the late shift at a nearby hospital. It was how he met Gabriel Gray, feverish and raving from a disease nobody could identify, much less cure.

Gabriel died in Peter’s arms, and, come the rising of the sun, Sylar was born.

“I don’t want your help.” He doesn’t. He fails to see how this is a problem in the first place. It’s only been a year, after all, and in his mortal life a year was hardly anything to get worked up over. But the Petrellis are nothing if not oversexed and well-intentioned, a combination that leads to disaster more often than not.

And besides, they don’t know the half of it. They don’t know at all.

“You’ve been alone too long, Gabriel,” Peter notes quietly, and Sylar winces at the use of his old name. He is done with that life, with that _man_. He has started anew.

Peter always brings it up, like a parent scolding a child by using his full name. It makes Sylar’s blood boil.

“I’m going out,” he tells them, grabs his coat and makes a break for the door. The New York twilight calls to him, and tonight the moon is full; the air, and the blood, will be sweeter for it.

Sylar pulls his collar shut against the cold and the wind, and disappears into the darkness.

* * *

_“A subject for a great poet would be God's boredom after the seventh day of creation.”  
– Friedrich Nietzsche_

Mohinder received the bite when he was twenty-three.

He was not bitten on the eve of his birthday, nor at the stroke of midnight while a storm raged outside, nor during the swell of a full moon or in the dark of winter. These are all notions that have been thought up by poets and writers and anyone with access to the old folktales. None of them ever really happen.

In fact, it was the middle of a summer heat wave, and it was three in the afternoon.

There was an eclipse that day.

He was tending to his dying sister as she lay in her hospital bed, suffering from a slow, creeping, cowardly disease that no one seemed to be able to identify. His parents had resigned themselves to the tragedy of the thing; his father had moved to America. His mother spent all of her time weeping.

Mohinder stayed and watched Shanti wither away.

This is the first bite.

* * *

“Mohinder.”

It’s a hard wheeze, raspy, the voice of someone with brittle bones. Mohinder goes to his sister; she is a mass of sticklike limbs and sickly skin and jaundiced eyes. She is beautiful, even in her illness, but it is the kind of beauty that is not long for this world.  
There is a feral touch about her mouth that was not there before.

He takes her cold hands, squeezes them between his own, knowing that he is not enough to warm her and trying anyway.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m here.”

“I know. My eyes are going, but I can still smell you.”

Sometimes Shanti says things like this. It was more common as a teenager, when she still confided in her younger brother in the deep night, before the first seizures came. After that there were no more after-hours discussions.

It disturbs their parents, but Mohinder sees nothing wrong with it. It is simply the way Shanti is.

“Must be time for a shower, then,” he jokes halfheartedly, and clutches her hands close, feeling her skin slide too loose along her bones. “Did you want some water?”

Shanti smiles. Her teeth are very white, her canines pointed, and her gums pulled up far. Her mouth looks too big, too wide, for a human. “No water. I’m not thirsty anymore. But I have a gift for you, baby brother.”

He doesn’t mind the endearment. It is not said in malice or spite. He leans closer to hear what she has to say.

Shanti draws their clasped hands up to her too-large mouth and holds them there, her lips resting against the delicate web of skin between Mohinder’s right thumb and forefinger. He is puzzled.

“A gift? Shanti, what – “

The pain is sharp and terrible and _sudden_. He gasps, yanks his hand away in instinctive reflex and only manages to tear the wound open more. Blood spatters the crisp white hospital sheets, Shanti’s serious and wild mouth, Mohinder’s lap.

He is too stunned to speak. His hand throbs steadily, painfully as Shanti licks her lips.

“My gift,” she says, satisfied in the way that only cats and the mad can experience satisfaction. “You’ll understand soon. I promise.”

And then she closes her eyes and goes to sleep. There is a fine spray of crimson across her lips where her tongue could not reach, a wet dollop gleaming on her chin.

Mohinder gathers up his coat and his books and leaves her to her sleep. He runs his hand under cold water in one of the impersonal hospital restrooms until the bleeding slows, slows, stops, and then he steps out into the bright summer heat of August in Chennai. His hand feels strange and detached, almost numb; the pain is a distant heartbeat, steady as clockwork or the tides.

Mohinder begins the long walk home. It is three weeks until the full moon.

* * *

_“What’s dead should stay dead.”  
\- Supernatural, season 2, episode 4_

Gabriel Gray dies in the E.R. of a small hospital in Queens, New York. His symptoms are mind-boggling, something akin to Ebola and something akin to AIDS. His immune system shuts down rapidly. His own cells turn on each other like rabid dogs in a cage. The doctors are stunned and horrified; Gabriel is quarantined before whatever he has can spread.

Luckily, it does not appear to be contagious.

He cries and suffers and screams himself hoarse for three hours before he becomes too weak to fight any more, at which point he lies there, sobbing quietly, as blood drips from his nose and his ears and his eyes. Soon there will be no blood left.

Only one nurse agrees to tend to him in his final moments.

Peter Petrelli steps beyond the plastic quarantine sheeting, wearing his green scrubs and his too-long hair and his lopsided smile, and he pulls up a chair beside the pain-wracked body on the E.R. table. That is all Gabriel is at this point: a body. There is very little of the man left in this bleeding husk.

Peter can fix that.

He leans close, puts his mouth next to Gabriel’s ear and inhales the iron-tang of blood, the salt of sweat and tears. Gabriel’s eyes slide open and, very slowly, focus on the man who has come to see him in his final moments.

“Did you ever want to live forever?”

Gabriel has never really thought about it. He is thinking about it now. Living longer than this would be awfully nice.

“You don’t want to die, do you.”

It is not a question. Gabriel _doesn’t_ want to die. Not here. Not now.

“I can fix you.”

Gabriel is a watchmaker. He knows what can and cannot be fixed.

“I can heal you.”

He is broken. There is something in him that is malfunctioning and no amount of delicate precision or steel tools will make him tick again.

“Answer me, Gabriel.”

Answer what?

“Do you want to live forever?”

_Yes_.

Gabriel Gray welcomes the bite, the pull, the drawing of blood. He welcomes the blackness and silence of momentary death.

He welcomes the midnight moon with new eyes.

This is the second bite.

* * *

It has been three weeks since the death of Gabriel Gray. Three weeks since the subsequent birth of Sylar.

Three weeks, and he has yet to feed. Nathan Petrelli is becoming irritated.

“Take him out tonight,” he says to Peter. “Hit the clubs, the bars, I don’t care. Spend as much as you need, just get him to _eat_.”

Sylar barely feels the hunger pangs. He is enamored of the last blotches of sunset before the rising of the moon, the faint aura of life that surrounds the humans he passes as Peter leads him through the crowded streets of New York City. He is in love with death. He is in love with himself and with the _concept_ of himself, something he has never really considered before. It makes him feel powerful. Alive, though his heart no longer beats.

“You really need to eat something,” Peter says, and Sylar resolutely ignores him. The moon is full tonight, and some part of him can feel the lure of it. Wouldn’t Nathan be _ashamed_.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You _won’t_. If you don’t eat you’ll get weak, and Nathan will want to kick you out. You _know_ that.”

There is a curious scent on the wind. Sylar lifts his head, takes a deep and lingering breath. It is animal-pungent, dark and sweet and musky. The part of him that is still Gabriel Gray recalls high school lockers, the thick smell of boys and men sweating and laughing together. Testosterone and skin. The part of him that is still Gabriel Gray is intimidated, halfway between aroused and terrified.

Sylar breathes it in and imagines he can feel it, taste it on his tongue. Excitement bubbles in his blood.

“Peter,” he whispers. “If I promise to eat, will you leave me alone tonight?”

And Peter, who is smarter than he sometimes acts, smarter than the choices he makes, nods hesitantly.

“Good,” Sylar purrs, and he strides off into the night.

* * *

He finds the dog near Central Park.

At least, he _thinks_ it’s a dog. It has all the trappings one normally associates with canines: four legs, bushy tail, nose and ears and thick cinnamon-red fur.

No matter how he tries to fool himself, Sylar is still Gabriel Gray at heart. And Gabriel has never left the city, and wouldn’t know the difference between a wolf and a dog if you sang it to him. So it is unsurprising when he ignores the creature (despite its warning growls) and takes a seat on the park bench, folding his hands in his lap and looking up at the moon.

The growls taper away. The dog (_wolf_) is curious.

“It’s a beautiful night,” Sylar says conversationally. Before, he would have been worried about being seen talking to a dog. Now the remnants of his human propriety give one last, feeble complaint, _you’re sitting on a park bench in public and talking to a stray dog,_ and then give up the ghost entirely.

The dog, predictably, does not answer. But it inches closer, ears laid back and teeth bared.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” A snort is the response, and Sylar chuckles in amusement. “Honestly, I’m not. You’re the first one who hasn’t yelled at me all night. I thought…after what happened, things would change. I’d be my own person. But I’m still tied down.”

The dog is close enough to touch, now. It truly _is_ that bright reddish-brown color, like a painted desert or a sunrise, interspersed with black along its muzzle and back and white on its belly. Its ears are prominent, now pricked forward with interest as it hesitantly lifts itself from its defensive crouch and sniffs Sylar’s shoe. It lifts its upper lip, as if in disgust.

“I don’t really like these shoes either,” Sylar says. “Leather is too hard to break in. Give me a good pair of Converses any day.”

He looks back up at the moon, not showing any signs of noticing when the dog takes a seat on the ground beside the bench, lifting its broad muzzle to the sky. The moon dapples its coat with silver light, shines in its amber eyes. For an instant Sylar gets a flash of something _other_, the sense that he is not sharing his time and space with a dog, or really anything even _like_ a dog.

It feels like sitting next to another person.

“I’m a vampire, you know,” he says suddenly. The sheer absurdity of telling a dog this fact is enough to make him choke on a spasm of laughter. The dog looks at him sardonically, as if to say, _’Well, you’re certainly not a cat._’ Or something equally as ridiculous.

“I thought things would be different,” Sylar says again. There is a note of frustration in his voice that the silver light of the moon cannot soften. Slowly, tentatively, the dog leans to the side and rests the majority of its bulk against Sylar’s leg.

The night moves on around them.

“Think I’m going to go someplace else,” Sylar says thoughtfully.

And the dog, huffing agreement, stands.

* * *

Mohinder wakes with the taste of cotton thick on his tongue and the distinct sensation that he is not alone.

He is in a bedroom, the kind that belongs to fancy hotels, with crisp sheets and a kitchenette near the door. The wallpaper is very white, and he is curled on a thick blanket that has been folded up beside the bed. His restless hands (_paws_) have kneaded it into a comfortable lump during the night.

He stands slowly, feeling out the aches and pains that moonrise always brings: strained ligaments, pulled joints, even broken bones are not uncommon. Now he catalogues his injuries: sore limbs, scratches along his chest and stomach, a large splinter wedged between his thumb and forefinger.

Hunger.

“I _thought_ you weren’t an ordinary dog.”

Mohinder flinches and whips around to face the source of the voice. He is naked, as he always is after a change, but he has never felt more aware of the fact than he feels now. He resists the urge to cover himself with his hands, to try and turn himself away, and stares resolutely at the man standing in the doorway.

“I remember you,” he says, more thoughtful than defensive, and the man nods encouragingly. “Last night. Something about vampires.”

“That would be me.”

“Then you should stay away.”

The man grins. He has dark eyes and a dark countenance; his shirt is half-open, as if he just woke up, and Mohinder can see pale skin and a thick, dark thatch of hair across his chest. He shivers, and it has nothing to do with cold or fear.

“I’m Sylar, in case you don’t remember. I’m not really sure how the whole ‘werewolf’ thing works.”

“It’s nothing like being a bloodsucking _murderer_,” Mohinder spits. Sylar stares at him for a moment, then chuckles, low and deep.

“I guess you really _don’t_ remember,” he says softly. “I told you last night. I haven’t eaten in about a week now. No fun to it. No challenge.”

“Only a vampire would see killing someone and leaving them in a ditch in terms of _challenge_.”

Sylar shrugs, a rolling motion that draws Mohinder’s attention to his broad shoulders, and takes a step into the room. Mohinder automatically takes a step back to compensate, but Sylar seems more interested in searching the kitchenette than he does in where he is standing relative to the bristling werewolf.

“They _wouldn’t_ stock the cupboards with anything, would they,” he mutters to himself. Mohinder cocks his head.

“Vampires can’t eat normal food,” he protests quietly, and Sylar gives him a brief look. It is a look that manages to be both fond and insulting at once, and Mohinder memorizes it, filing it away for later use.

“Not for me, for _you_. You _are_ hungry, right?”

“Starving,” Mohinder says hesitantly. He’d planned to hunt last night, to chase down a squirrel or maybe even a stray cat, but he’d gotten distracted by the moon, by the gentle breeze, by the man on the bench. _Sylar_. “I don’t trust you.”

“You don’t have to trust me,” Sylar soothes. “Just let me buy you breakfast.”

Mohinder pauses. Cocks his head.

“My name is Mohinder,” he offers hesitantly, and Sylar smiles.

* * *

They order room service. Rather, Sylar orders room service while Mohinder takes a shower, washing away dirt and blood and a few stray cinnamon-brown hairs. He always marvels over how drastic the color change is when he is a wolf. He always expects himself to be black, or dark grey. He thinks he heard somewhere that red wolves are almost extinct in the wild. Maybe from Matt; Matt likes to be informed about things.

He does not know what color Shanti was. She died before he could ever see her change.

Eventually the water runs cold, and Mohinder wraps himself in one of the hotel towels (staining it with blood from a few still-oozing cuts) and leaves the bathroom, only to find Sylar reclining on the bed with a steaming tray of food perched precariously on top of the nightstand. It smells wonderful; Mohinder can feel himself beginning to salivate.

“I promise you it’s not poisoned,” Sylar says, once he notices the werewolf’s wary posture, his tense shoulders. “If I wanted to kill you I would have done it by now. Jesus, you’re skinny. Come eat something before you die of _natural_ causes.”

There’s bacon; Mohinder can smell it. Bacon and sausage, and _waffles_. He can’t remember the last time he treated himself to breakfast. He inches closer, clutching his towel around his waist, until he is near enough to snag a sausage with the tips of his fingers. It smells divine. He eats it without taking his eyes off of Sylar.

“Are you going to be wandering around naked the whole time? Not that I mind, of course,” Sylar amends quickly. Mohinder isn’t sure if he should be terrified or flattered.

“I don’t have my clothes,” he mutters through a mouthful of sausage. “I left them in…at home. I left them at home.”

“Which means I have to get you clothes as well. Oh, the trials you put me through.”

“I didn’t _ask_ you to feed me,” Mohinder snaps. In his irritation he is more animal than man, white teeth bared and legs stiff. Sylar smiles, slow and lazy.

“But I _wanted_ to,” he coos. Mohinder swallows and, completely contrary to what his brain is telling him to do, takes a step closer to the bed.

“So pretty,” Sylar croons, reaching out to trail his fingertips across Mohinder’s bare side, feathering across hipbone and rib and barest hint of buttocks. “I would have thought a werewolf would be hairier.”

“We’re not born, only made,” Mohinder says faintly, as if that explains everything, but if Sylar is confused he does not allow it to show, only draws his prey closer with a soft touch and intense eyes.

Mohinder, half-dazed and with his erection heavy and thick against his thigh, allows himself to be snared.

* * *

_“If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and a man.”  
\- Mark Twain_

“You need to stop giving me so little warning for these meetings.”

“And here I thought you enjoyed the clandestine nature of our relationship.”

“I’m _serious_.”

“So am I.”

It has been four months. Four months of fighting and fucking and loving and hating each other. Four months of secrets, and lying, and sneaking around like rats after dark. Four months of bliss that Mohinder would not relinquish for the world.

They meet in warehouses and parks or, when that is not enough, anonymous hotels. Sylar is always there first, but never shows impatience or disinterest if Mohinder takes a little longer in showing up than promised.

They don’t proclaim love, but the emotion sometimes bleeds through. Mohinder feels himself the worst kind of traitor, but cannot stop. _Will not_ stop.

It is a long night, and a slow night. They haven’t seen each other for two weeks. Sylar lies on the hotel bed with the kind of graceful lethargy that all predators have when they are relaxing. Mohinder envies him that; he can only achieve that kind of poise when the moon is full.

“Going to come here or are you just going to stare?”

“Perhaps I should stay away just to punish you,” Mohinder grumbles, but it is an empty threat. He takes a step forward, another, until he is close enough for Sylar to hook pale hands around his waist and pull him onto the bed. Their bodies fit nearly perfectly together, Sylar’s long legs twining around Mohinder’s, their groins pressed tight and hot. Sylar licks a wet stripe up Mohinder’s neck, touches his sharp canines to the tender skin below the shelf of his jaw.

“Could drain you right now,” he mutters; Mohinder swallows, counts to ten before jerking his head back and clamping his hands around Sylar’s wrists.

The struggle is part of what makes it fun.

Sylar’s legs twist, bucking up as he tries to free himself, but Mohinder, despite his disadvantage in height, is still the stronger one. His hold stays firm as Sylar curses and writhes beneath him, their erections riding together in sweat and denim and flaring testosterone.

“Say it,” Mohinder growls.

“_Fuck you_.”

“Say it!” He punctuates his demand with a snarl, tightening his grip on Sylar’s wrist as he buries his teeth in Sylar’s skin, right at the juncture between neck and shoulder. Blood squirts into his mouth, lukewarm and thick, not the way blood _should_ be, but Sylar’s arching spine and his soft whine are worth the minor discomfort of having such old blood, _dead_ blood on his tongue.

“_Yours_,” he gasps, shifting as Mohinder worries the flesh between his teeth. “I’m yours, goddamnit!”

One more squeeze of jaws and hands, one more spurt of blood down his throat and Mohinder lets go, humming in satisfaction as Sylar, instead of trying to push him off, lays his hands on slender hips and holds on.

“Good boy,” Mohinder murmurs, lapping the sticky blood from his lips, from Sylar’s skin, and marveling at how the wound closes over the next minute. Only the blood remains.

“I hate it when you do that,” Sylar gasps, arches up and moans at the friction between them.

“No, you don’t.”

For a while there is nothing but their soft gasps — Mohinder’s whimper as Sylar reaches down and cups him through his jeans, Sylar’s growl when the werewolf shoves his slacks down and curls his fingers tight around the base of his cock. They are sweat and precome and blood, they ride against each other in tidal motions, fists jerking in tandem, cresting higher and higher.

_Falling_.

Sylar lifts his semen-spattered hand, brings it to his mouth and rubs milky-white along his lips. Mohinder watches raptly.

“No,” he says after a moment. “I really don’t.”

**-END-**


End file.
